


Not quite a Cinderella Story

by merle_p



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Dubious Consent, Fairy Tales, Framing Story, Fusion - Cinderella, Implied Underage, M/M, Storytelling, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-18
Updated: 2010-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 04:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where the “Glee Club” is a brothel, the glee kids are badasses, Kurt Hummel is not a Disney princess, and Sue Sylvester works for the FBI: In short: Cinderella meets The Sopranos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starryskies](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=starryskies).



> **Spoilers:** Spoilers for the first season  
>  **Disclaimer:** _Glee_ belongs to FOX. The idea for the prologue and epilogue are shamelessly stolen from the movie _The Princess Bride_  
>  This fic was written for the Finn/Kurt fic exchange at [](http://finnkurt.livejournal.com/profile)[**finnkurt**](http://finnkurt.livejournal.com/). It's for [](http://starryskies.livejournal.com/profile)[**starryskies**](http://starryskies.livejournal.com/) /[](http://gleeful-beat.livejournal.com/profile)[ **gleeful_beat**](http://gleeful-beat.livejournal.com/) , and the prompt was: _Kurt is a stripper/prostitute, and Finn falls in love with him. Happy ending is necessary._ Yeah. I don't even know. I was going to write 2.000 words, and I ended up writing more than 10.000 words. Of a hooker/criminals AU.

_Prologue_

“Is this a kissing book, uncle A?” the girl asks. She has seen _The Princess Bride_ often enough to get her pop cultural references right. Her parents appreciate that kind of thing.

“You could say so,” the uncle smiles. “But it’s also so much more than that.”

“Really?” she asks, trying to sound bored. “I hope it doesn’t have any sports in it.”

“No sports,” the uncle says, “don’t worry. But there’s fighting and singing, tough ladies and pretty boys, true love and miracles.”

“Well,” the girl grins, snuggling into her pillow. “That doesn’t sound too bad. I’ll try to stay awake.”

“That’s very kind, thank you for your vote of confidence,” the uncle says, and then he opens the book.

 

 

_Chapter 1, wherein we hear Kurt Hummel’s sad, but not exceptionally tragic story_

One might think that there has to be a tragic story to explain how Kurt Hummel became a prostitute – a bad stepmother, a terrible fate, an evil witch; and there are certainly moments when Kurt himself wishes it was like that: because bad romance is, after all, better than no romance at all.

The truth, however, is rather more profane, a story like thousand others, like they happen every day in every city around the world: his father a simple mechanic who never found out that he'd fathered a child that one drunken night, his mother a drug addict who raised him in dirty back rooms and alleyways and overdosed when Kurt was six years old. A couple of foster homes, a few years on the street, well meaning social workers that didn't know how to help, closeted cops that could be convinced to let him go in exchange for a blow job, in the restroom of a run-down fast food joint.

The death of his mother didn't mean sleeping by the hearth and picking lentils out of the ashes as much as it got him a roof over his head and three meals a day at a foster home, and his fairy godmother was the director of the orphanage who came to his bed one night and showed him, one hand over his mouth, the other down the back of his pants, that he wasn't completely useless, after all.

His savior was not a Prince Charming, not even Chad Michael Murray, but night club owner Artie Abrams, who recognized the boy's potential when Kurt approached him on the streets one rainy November night, and gave him a job in one of his clubs. The _Glee Club_ wasn't a palace, and Kurt's clients were hardly noblemen: But it was his very own little bit of romance, even if it was the cheap romance of dark red polyester sheets, awful champagne and whispered lies.

No, Kurt Hummel's life was no Cinderella Story, no fairy tale. Which is why, when Finn Hudson came to the _Glee Club_ by himself for the very first time, Kurt didn't dare to hope for anything other than new gossip material and a brief distraction, and it never occurred to him that this might be the moment that would change his life.

 

 

_Chapter 2, wherein there is a change of tense, and we get to know some of the characters_

Working at _Glee_ means, most of all, being safe, because Artie's clubs are under the protection of Tina Cohen-Chang, who is known for being a crazy bitch, but rules her territory with an iron fist. She has her guys patrol the area night and day, and makes sure that Artie's girls and boys are left alone: in exchange, as a sign of gratitude, the guys get to use their services whenever they are in the mood.

Most of Chang's men prefer heavy breasts and well-rounded hips; Chang's cousin Mike, however, always asks for Kurt, and Kurt doesn't mind working for free when it's him: because Mike is handsome and has a lovely cock, because he treats him like a normal person; because he's almost a friend.

Tonight, Mike fucks him twice before shoving a 20-dollar-bill under the snow-globe on the nightstand and fetching himself a beer from the mini-bar.

“I can't stay long tonight,” he says, sounding sincerely regretful. “There are things going on.”

“There are _things_ going on?” Kurt repeats. It's hard to pull off the raised eyebrow when curled up naked in another guy's lap, but Kurt manages anyway. He has a lot of practice.

Mike laughs. “You know I can't tell you,” he says, dragging his fingers down Kurt's ribcage, as if to count his ribs. “You should eat more.”

“Are you saying I'm too skinny?” Kurt asks, pouting half-heartedly.

“I'm saying I don't want to worry about you,” Mike replies, sounding serious enough to make Kurt believe that he means it. He takes another sip from his bottle. “Have you ever thought about going back to school?”

Kurt snorts, rather unladylike. “Have you?”

“Don't be stupid, you know I haven't,” Mike says, and he looks almost sad. It's an unfamiliar look on him. “And you know why. I've killed people. Hell, I've cut off more fingers to make people talk than you can count on both hands. The only way I'll ever leave this life behind is if I go to prison, and let's hope that won't happen anytime soon.” He pinches Kurt's thigh, gently. “You, however ....”

“Stop it, Mike,” Kurt says sharply, and climbs off of the man's lap. “I'm not unhappy. Artie is a good boss. He pays for my ER bills, I have my own room, the girls and Miss Jones, and twice a week, I get your beautiful cock to make up for all the disgusting ones I'm made to suck the other nights. So tell me, what do I need more?”

 

 

After Mike leaves, Kurt takes a shower and dresses for the night: tight jeans and a tighter black top adorned with sequins and lace. He doesn't do drag – Jesse pulls that off better and more willingly – but he likes to add a touch of glamor to his outfit, now and then, and his clients seem to like it, too.

Downstairs, he finds Brittany and Santana huddled together in a corner of the club, talking agitatedly.

“Guess who's here?” Santana says in lieu of a greeting. Santana is a bitch, and Kurt is sure that under other circumstances, in another life, they'd honestly detest each other. But the job they do brings them closer together, and if nothing else, they work together on keeping Brittany safe.

Around here, that's enough to make you allies, if not friends.

Kurt looks at her in askance, but Brittany doesn't believe in the art of building suspense. “Finn Hudson is here,” she smiles, bouncing excitedly. Her tits jump under the see-through halter top she's wearing.

“So what?” Kurt replies. “He's here almost every night.”

“But not alone,” Santana says smugly. “And not to get drunk.”

It's true. Finn Hudson is a frequent guest at _Glee_ , but not for the same reasons most of the other regulars are.

Hudson is handsome, slightly awkward, always polite – and a hardened criminal. He’s a debt-collector, levying money from those who are unfortunate enough to owe Will Schuester. Schuester has made it big in gambling and betting, the illegal kind: horse races and poker, box fights and roulette – Schuester is the guy who gives you whatever you want and then takes everything you have. Making enemies is so much easier than making friends in this dirty business, but who is Kurt to judge? They all take advantage of people's addictions, of their weaknesses, after all.

Hudson and his right hand Noah Puckerman use the club as an office, of sorts, occupying one of the back rooms to do business several nights a week. Puckerman likes to mix work with pleasure, and often goes upstairs with one of the girls afterwards: Santana, Brittany, or sometimes both. Hudson never stays, instead goes home to his pregnant wife; and while some people call him whipped behind his back, Kurt can't help but find it rather romantic.

“Where is Puckerman?” he asks, and Santana smirks.

“On his way to prison, as far as I've heard.”

“Prison?” Kurt breathes, honestly dismayed. He's not Noah Puckerman's biggest fan, who is a horny pig, and known for his bad, and often violent temper; but it's always bad news when someone they are connected to gets caught.

“Who ratted him out?”

“You haven't heard?” Santana asks, and Kurt knows from experience that she only sounds that cheerful when she's got dirt on someone. “ _Apparently_ , there are rumors that Finn Hudson is not the one who fathered the spawn his bitch of a wife is carrying. _Apparently_ , those rumors are actually the truth. And who do you think is the guy that _apparently_ was stupid enough to fuck the wife of Schuester’s golden boy without using protection?”

“O my God,” Kurt chokes out. “Are you serious?”

“I am,” she nods. “As you can imagine, Hudson wasn't too happy to find out that his partner and his wife had a go at it behind his back. So he pulled a few strings, and now Puckerman is on a bus to North Central Correctional Institution, in Marion, Ohio, while Hudson's beautiful little wife is begging for someone to take her in after he kicked her to the curb.”

Brittany sniffs sadly, and Santana nudges her gently. “Don't look like that,” she scolds. “They got what was coming to them. And now,” she grins, pointing her chin towards the bar, “now Hudson is here, alone, drowning his sorrows in alcohol, and just waiting for someone to comfort him.”

“And you think you should be that person?” Kurt asks. He doesn't quite like where this is going.

“Me and Brittany,” Santana says confidently, throwing her long black hair back over her shoulder. “Do you know what it would mean to get Finn Hudson into bed? Or even better, to get him to come back for more? He's got the money, the power – this could do wonders for my reputation.”

“What reputation, Santana?” Kurt asks dryly. “You are a whore. Even if Finn Hudson would fuck you, he'd leave the money on your pillow and forget all about you tomorrow.”

Santana smirks. “Just wait and see, sugar pie. You are just jealous that he's never going to dip his finger into your honey pot.”

“I like honey,” Brittany says, looking cheerful again, and Santana sighs fondly. Then she gives Kurt's cheek a condescending pat and walks away, a reluctant Brittany in tow.

 

 

It's a quiet night, like most Tuesdays are; and while Kurt finds someone to take to his room without problems, it's not like his services are desperately needed. So in between customers, he allows himself to take little breaks, just long enough to do what he knows is a bad idea.

From a distance, he watches Finn Hudson, who has migrated from the bar to the darkest booth in a corner of the club. Kurt has served three clients, and he is still there, a picture of defeat, slumped over the table, nursing his beer.

Kurt watches girls approach him, from time to time, sit down next to him in the booth, sneak a hand over his thighs and down in between; and he watches Hudson send them away, one after the next, with a simple shake of his head.

“It's kind of sad, isn't it?” Artie says conversationally, suddenly appearing at his elbow, and Kurt blushes at being caught.

“He seems to take it really hard,” he replies, carefully trying to make it not sound like he cares.

Artie nods. “Maybe you should go and see if he's alright,” he says lightly, and Kurt turns to stare at him.

“The girls have been trying all night,” he says. “He's been sending them away.”

Artie raises a brow. “Which is why I'm telling _you_ to go.” He sighs. “Don't look at me like that. Hudson is important for us. The deal with Schuester only came through because Hudson put in a good word for us. It saves me a whole lot of bribes, and it's a comfortable arrangement, for everyone involved. I don't want that balance to get upset because someone put his dick where it didn't belong.”

Kurt takes a breath. “Fine, I'll try,” he says. “But don't be disappointed if he ends up punching me in the face.”

On his way, he stops by the bar to get a double shot of vodka. He doesn't have a lot of personal experience with lovesickness, but he knows enough to understand that beer is not the most effective cure.

“What do you want?” Hudson grunts, without looking up from his empty bottle, when Kurt approaches his table. He sounds like someone who's desperately trying to get drunk.

“You look like you could use something stronger,” Kurt says, putting the glass down on the table next to Hudson's hand.

“Strong?” Hudson asks blankly, “strong is good.” He downs the shot, then looks up at Kurt with bleary eyes, and Kurt realizes his mistake: Finn Hudson is not on his way to being drunk. He's already been there, and back. Several times.

“Thank you, Kurt,” Hudson says gravely, his voice slurring. “You are Kurt, right? I have seen you around.”

“Yeah, that's me,” Kurt says, and he can't help but blushing slightly.

“You are a good boy, Kurt,” Hudson nods. He reaches out to pat his arm, but his hand drops heavily and stays there, resting on Kurt's forearm just below his elbow.

Kurt forces a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Hudson,” he says politely. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?” He steps away to pick up the empty shot glass and the bottle, but before he can turn around, Finn Hudson wraps a strong hand around his wrist, keeping him in place.

“Mr. Hudson?” Kurt asks hesitantly. The grip doesn’t hurt, not really, but Hudson’s fingers are clenched tightly around his wrist, and Kurt is not quite sure he could get away if he wanted to.

Hudson stares at him intently with bloodshot eyes. “You are very pretty, Kurt,” he says, almost curiously. “Your mouth ... I really like your mouth.”

Kurt swallows against the violent beating of his heart. “Mr. Hudson,” he says carefully. “You are aware that I’m not a girl, aren’t you?”

“Girls are my problem,” Hudson says and hangs his head, but he doesn't let go of Kurt's hand. “Women are insane. I need a break from them.” He tugs, hard, and Kurt all but stumbles into his lap.

“You are not going to say no to me, are you?” Hudson whispers. His breath smells like beer and liquor, hot and wet against Kurt’s neck, and one big hand is on his leg, rubbing circles into his thigh, dangerously close to his crotch. Kurt shakes his head.

“No,” he breathes. “Not saying no.”

 

 

They don’t do much that night, because Hudson is far too drunk, and he barely manages to get hard enough for Kurt to blow him. He comes fast, with a weak groan, and rolls over almost immediately; but when Kurt starts to get up, he wraps a strong arm around his waist and pulls him down. Kurt follows, wary but willingly, and Hudson tucks him against his side, like a child would treat a doll, and in an instant, he is asleep.

 

 

_Chapter 3, wherein Kurt gets more than one surprise_

Kurt wakes up early the next day, disoriented, to an empty bed, an empty nightstand – and panics. Because this room might be his, but it is more or less his office, and just because there's a bed in it doesn't mean he's supposed to actually sleep there. And under no circumstances is he supposed to fall asleep while his client is still there, and let him leave without paying.

He feels like crying, but he forces himself to step into the shower, because if he's going to die today, he'd rather do it smelling nicely. How did he mess up so badly? If Hudson doesn't kill him for taking advantage of him while he was drunk and vulnerable, Artie surely will kill him for so blatantly disobeying the rules.

The club is quiet when he staggers down the stairs, deserted at this time of day, but he finds Artie in his office, doing the books.

“Good morning,” Kurt says guiltily, but Artie merely looks up from his paperwork and smiles.

“Good morning, Kurt,” he says, “do you want coffee?” He doesn't wait for an answer, just pours a second cup from the large pot on his desk.

“Artie, I'm so sorry ...” Kurt starts, even while he steps closer to take the cup from him, but Artie waves him off.

“It’s fine, Kurt,” he says. “You did nothing I didn't want you to. But before I forget it ...” He opens a drawer to take out an envelope. “Hudson wanted me to make sure you got this.”

Kurt sets down the coffee cup to open the envelope. His mouth falls open. He doesn't have to count to see that there's a whole lot of money in it.

“Uhm,” he says. “You forgot to take out the usual rate.”

“No, no,” Artie says. “He paid me. This is just for you.”

“Oh,” Kurt says. He feels dizzy. “Okay. I think I'll go home now.”

He decides to walk back to his tiny apartment in the East End, in the hope that the fresh air will clear his head, but it doesn't really help.

Whenever he reaches into his pocket, the envelope crackles softly against his fingers.

 

 

Kurt doesn't expect to see Finn Hudson again, except from afar. The hundred dollars he found in the envelope don't change that. He's grateful, because it allows him to buy new underwear and a travel guide for Bavaria that he'll probably never get to use, but he doesn't delude himself: what he told Santana goes for him as well. He's a whore, a beautiful fantasy at best, a convenient hole at worst, and for Finn Hudson, he was probably not even that – just a source of comfort during one miserable, blurry night.

Which is why it comes as such a surprise when Artie approaches him Thursday night.

Kurt is working, fake-flirting with Azimio, a customer that he knows will follow him to his room in a few more minutes and call Kurt “dirty little fag“ while he fucks him roughly against the wall. It has happened before. That Kurt knows who he works for doesn't make it any better – Karofsky's guys are a particularly nasty pack.

Azimio has just pressed Kurt against a pillar, breathing heavily against Kurt's ear shell, one hand already sneaking down to Kurt's ass, when Artie's wheelchair comes to a halt right next to them.

“Excuse me,” Artie says, in his usual charming, but firm tone. “I need to borrow your companion for a second.”

It is common knowledge that Artie Abrams doesn't hesitate to ban everyone who causes trouble from his clubs, so Azimio lets Kurt go without complaint, even if he looks less than pleased. Inwardly, Kurt sighs in relief.

“Kurt,” Artie says when they are out of earshot. “Hudson is here. He asked for you.”

Kurt jerks up his head in surprise, and sure enough, there is Finn Hudson at the bar, patiently sipping on what looks like a bourbon on the rocks, staring into his glass, and steadfastly ignoring all the boys and girls loitering in his vicinity.

“Well, go on,” Artie says, and gives Kurt a gentle nudge that pulls him out of his reverie. “You've got work to do.”

“What about ...” Kurt starts, throwing a furtive glance towards Azimio, but Artie shakes his head. “I'll deal with him. Hudson is more important.”

Theoretically, Kurt knows that nobody who was unhappy with the service would leave him a hundred-dollar-tip, but when he approaches the bar, he feels his heart beating faster in apprehension nonetheless.

“Mr. Hudson?” he says timidly, and Hudson looks up from his drink, grinning wryly.

“Kurt Hummel,” he says. “Good to see you again.”

 

 

This time, they actually have sex. It's more than awkward, because Finn has obviously no idea what he's doing, and it's over far too soon, but Kurt can't bring himself to care. Afterwards, Hudson curls up on the bed and cries, and Kurt carefully wraps his arms around him, and pets him, and waits.

“You can't really trust anyone in my business,” Hudson finally says. “They all want something. Everyone is just waiting for you to turn around so that they can stab you in the back.”

“Are you saying that it wasn't a surprise?” Kurt asks carefully.

“I never thought _they_ 'd be the ones to betray me,” Hudson says, punching a pillow for good measure. “Is it too much to ask that you can at least trust your wife? Your partner? You should be able to trust the people closest to you. And they cheated on me. They left me.”

Kurt doesn't point out that Hudson did everything to _make_ them leave. He doesn't know what to say: he never had a partner, much less a wife. He trusts Artie and Miss Jones with his life, but that is worth less than the clothes in his closet, so what does that say? He trusts Brittany to make him tea on bad days, he trusts Santana to call him out on his shit, he trusts Mike to give him orgasms, but life has taught him not to count on other people, not to rely on anybody.

So he doesn't say anything, just caresses Hudson's neck with gentle fingers when he talks about the time Noah Puckerman saved his life, and obediently goes down on him when he recovers enough to ask for seconds.

Hudson leaves around three am, with a kiss to Kurt's bare shoulder, and in the morning, the newspaper says that Noah “Puck” Puckerman is expected to get five to ten years for running illegal gambling joints, blackmail, criminal assault and battery, and extortionate robbery. They claim the evidence is overwhelming.

 

 

“I heard that Finn Hudson has taken a liking to you,” Mike says casually, while he's working two fingers in and out of Kurt's ass. Kurt lets the cock he's been sucking slip out of his mouth. Mike has brought Matt Rutherford this time, as he sometimes does when they both have had what they call a spectacularly bad day. Kurt suspects that this usually involves butterfly knives and a lot of blood, but he doesn't ask. Matt works for Miss Jones, but she and Cohen-Chang like to cooperate on occasion, and Matt and Mike make a good team, because they have practically grown up together. There's no way they are going to betray each other, and their bosses count on that.

“Don't be silly,” Kurt says, mouth still pressed up against Matt's balls. “He just – he is grieving, you know? He just needs something to make him forget. This has nothing to do with me. The first night, he was so drunk, he probably didn't even realize that I'm not a girl.”

Matt makes a snorting noise and gestures widely. He doesn't talk anymore, not since Karofsky's guys cut out his tongue in retaliation for giving FBI Agent Sylvester an anonymous tip. That doesn't mean he has any problems making himself understood, though.

Mike laughs. “He thinks that no one who's seen you naked could ever mistake you for a girl.”

Kurt huffs out a chuckle against Matt's skin before turning back to look at Mike. “Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult? I really can't tell. Besides,” he adds, “it doesn't make a difference. Hudson got what he needed, he's not going to come back. Not to me, anyway.”

Mike gives him a sharp look, but then he shrugs. “If you say so,” he says, slapping Kurt's ass, and Kurt yelps and goes back to sucking Matt's cock.

 

 

However, it turns out that Kurt has been wrong, because Hudson is back on Tuesday, and Santana gives him a look that is as impressed as it is malicious when she tells Kurt that Hudson is waiting for him at the bar.

“Call me Finn,” Hudson says, as a greeting, “Mr. Hudson makes me feel old.” Hudson is definitely not old; there can't be more than ten years between them, but Kurt likes the taste of his given name in his mouth, how it rolls over his tongue and drips down his lips, so he doesn't protest.

Nor does he protest when Hudson presses him into the mattress and proceeds to fuck him with a force that reeks of despair and confusion. Kurt can take it, if that’s what Hudson needs.

“That was good,” Hudson sighs afterwards, and runs a hand over Kurt’s back, along his spine, strong fingers curving around the firm shape of his ass. “Your skin is really soft,” he remarks, sounding surprised, almost awed, and it’s that voice, that touch that Kurt jerks off to after Finn has left.

 

 

_Chapter 4, wherein a state of normalcy seems to be attained_

Hudson also comes on Thursday, and the week after that, and the week after that, until it becomes a regular occurrence.

They fuck, Kurt on his knees, on his belly, on his back, or perched on Finn's lap in an easy chair, and it gets a bit less awkward every time. If Hudson realizes that he’s having sex with a guy on a regular basis, he doesn’t say, even if he hardly ever acknowledges Kurt’s cock. But then, a lot of customers don’t, so it’s hard to tell if Hudson is inexperienced, inattentive, or just not really into guys.

A lot more time is spent talking, anyway, and not only because Hudson still tends to come pretty fast. Kurt gets the distinct impression that Finn is lonely, which doesn't really come as a surprise. Everyone in this part of town is lonely, in a way, with distrustful eyes and a sad story of their own.

Kurt doesn’t really get why Hudson would confide in him, of all people, because Kurt doesn’t get to see anything of Hudson’s life except the two nights a week that he spends at the club. But maybe that’s exactly why.

“Thank you for listening, man,” Finn says one night, and glances at him from under lowered lashes. He has talked for an hour about his mother, about how she still looks at him with something like disappointment and regret, even after he gave her the lovely house and the car she wanted for her birthday. Kurt thinks of his own mother, how she had only ever looked at him when she wasn’t high, and wishes he had a parent that cared about his career choice at all.

“It’s nothing,” he says, but Finn shakes his head.

“Yes, it is. I appreciate it, really. You know there's nobody else I can talk to about these things.”

Kurt laughs quietly. “And I'm so much cheaper than a therapist,” he jokes, and is surprised when Finn blushes at his words.

“That's not what I meant,” Finn protests awkwardly, “it's not like that,” and he looks so embarrassed that Kurt just pats his head reassuringly and tells him not to worry.

 

 

Things change after that night, even if it takes Kurt a while to realize. Finn starts to bring him presents, useless little things: flowers, chocolates, a CD. The first time it happens Kurt doesn't even know what to do with the huge bouquet in his arms.

“What is this?” he asks, struggling with the flowers.

“Uhm, lilies?” Finn says, looking like a cat that drops a dead mouse on its owner's doormat and expects to be praised for it, and Kurt doesn't have the heart to tell him off.

“They are lovely, thank you,” he says, and realizes his mistake when Finn arrives with more flowers and Swiss truffles two days later, that hopeful smile back on his face.

At first, Kurt wonders if Finn sees the presents as some sort of payment, but Finn always gives Artie whatever he owes, and still leaves envelopes around for Kurt to find. For a while, Kurt thinks it might be a way for Finn to assuage his conscience, but while Finn gets flustered every time Kurt brings up his profession, there is no sign that Finn feels actually guilty about coming to see Kurt.

And considering that Finn earns his living threatening to break people’s kneecaps, that would be more than ridiculous anyway.

The quality of their conversations changes, too. Whereas Finn used to talk about whatever was on his mind, he suddenly starts to ask questions.

“Where are you from? Isn’t Kurt a German name?” he asks, and: “Where did you get that scar? That looks like it was a nasty cut.”

Kurt feels flattered, but at the same time, he's at a loss: he has come to like the thought that he’s able to give Finn Hudson something that nobody else could, this safe room where he can stop being what he has to be to the rest of the world; and he doesn't want to ruin it with a tale of woe and misfortune, of nights spent on the street, of violent fists and cruel words.

He doesn’t want to tell Finn that it was a john who gave him the scar when he smashed a beer bottle on his spine, back when he was still on the streets. He doesn’t want to tell Finn that it was a social worker named Miss Pillsbury who gave him the name Kurt Hummel when he was six, because he reminded her of a porcelain figurine, and nobody seemed to know his real name – not even Kurt himself.

Absent-mindedly, he takes the snow-globe from his nightstand and shakes it, watching the snowflakes swirl up and down around the tiny castle inside.

“What’s that?” Finn asks curiously and takes the globe from Kurt’s hand, squinting at the miniature palace behind the fake snow. “It looks like the Disney castle.”

“It is,” Kurt says. “It’s Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria. It served as the model for the Sleeping Beauty Castle in Disneyland.”

“Have you been there?” Finn asks, and Kurt shakes his head.

“No,” he says wistfully. “But I'd like to go.”

“Tell me more,” Finn says, and so, instead of telling Finn about his life, Kurt talks about his dreams.

He tells Finn about the man who built the palace in the snow-globe: Ludwig II of Bavaria, _der Märchenkönig_ , the Fairy Tale King, the prince who made his dream come true in wood and stone, a dream that would inspire romantics all over the world, a dream that would become the embodiment of fantasy and fairy tales.

Kurt knows that he sounds like a bad travel guide, but Finn listens with rapt attention, and it helps Kurt ignore the voice inside his head that reminds him of how Ludwig's fairy tale ended.

 

 

Six weeks later, Kurt manages to fall asleep on the job again, and when he wakes up the next morning, just after 5am, Finn Hudson is still in his bed, strong arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

Two months later, Santana tells him that Quinn Fabray apparently has disappeared from the surface of the earth, and that nobody seems to know where she is. When Kurt tries to ask Finn about her that night, the man looks away and tells Kurt that he's not thinking about her anymore.

Artie hires a new singer that week, a dark-haired girl named Rachel. At first, she barely deigns to talk to them, because, as she likes to remind them, she is an artist, born to do great things, and the rest of them are not. Santana just laughs at her and says she's an artist alright, because there are things she can do with her mouth that Rachel can only dream about; Kurt, however, is in awe of her talent, as annoying as she may be.

After three months, Kurt stops seeing other clients on the days he knows Finn will come. Instead he just works the pole on stage while he's waiting for Hudson to show up and ask for a drink, with that little smile on his face.

There's an orderliness to his life that he has never known before: On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Finn comes to see him, and Mike still stops by on Wednesdays more often than not. On Sunday afternoons, Kurt goes to see Miss Jones, to give her a pedicure and do her hair.

“I'd rather have you do it than a so-called professional that is going to sell my toe nail clippings to the FBI,” she says, but Kurt knows she could easily find a loyal stylist who'd be honored to work for her.

Kurt likes to think that she asks for him because they are sort-of friends, and she enjoys their conversations. Santana says it's because Miss Jones has a thing for him, and Kurt is afraid that she might be right, but he tries not to dwell on it. She has to know that there's no way he could ever return her feelings. It's a ridiculous thought anyway. Kurt is just a rent boy, and Miss Jones rules a kingdom of criminals.

“You are glowing,” she says when he goes to see her on a Sunday almost four months after Finn Hudson first slept in his bed. “Are you pregnant?”

“What? No!” he protests, and doesn't quite know why he’s blushing. “I'm pretty sure I would have noticed by now if that was possible.”

She smiles and pats his arm. “Well, it's either that or you must be in love,” she says, and he ducks his head, so that she can't see that he's flushing harder.

Of course she notices anyway. “No way,” she says, sucking in a hard breath, and then, in a completely different tone: “Don't tell me this has anything to do with Finn Hudson.”

He looks up at that. “Have you been talking to Rutherford?” he asks, and he's got the feeling that he doesn't sound as nonchalant as he wants to.

“Of course,” she says airily. “I have to know what my guys are up to. I would be a bad excuse for a boss otherwise.”

It's a polite way to tell him that nothing he does or says will stay a secret for long, not in this job, not in this town. It's not news, but the thought makes him uncomfortable nevertheless.

“I'm not in love with Hudson,” he says defiantly. “It's just ... nice, to have recurrent clients, once in a while. And he's easy to talk to.”

“Talk?” Miss Jones laughs disbelievingly, obviously amused. “Hudson? Come on, that guy is as entertaining as a chemistry text book. That is to say, not at all.”

“I didn't say that I put up with him because of his sparkling wit,” Kurt replies defensively.

“No,” Miss Jones says. “You put up with him because of his money. Or at least that's why you should.” She gives him a sharp look and sighs when he refuses to look her in the eyes. “I'll let it go for now, but only because Blushing Virgin is such a good look on you, my boy. And now get over here and polish my nails. ”

 

 

Miss Jones' words are still on his mind when Finn shows up the next time, with a bouquet of roses in his arms.

“Finn?” Kurt asks while he's arranging the flowers in a vase. A vase that Brittany gave him for just that purpose.

“Why do you keep giving me things?”

Finn frowns. “Don't you like them?”

Kurt sighs. “Of course I like them, Finn. These flowers are beautiful. It's just – I don't understand.”

Finn doesn't answer, and when the roses are taken care of, Kurt looks up to see him play with the snow-globe again. He's been doing that a lot.

“What happened to Ludwig?” Finn asks absent-mindedly, turning the globe on its head and back. “Was he happy, living in his pretty castle all by himself?”

“No,” Kurt says. “He wasn't happy.”

“So what happened to him?” Finn asks, and Kurt stares at his roses.

“He killed himself,” he says. “Or maybe it was murder. Nobody really knows.”

“I'm sorry,” Finn says, sounding honestly shocked, and that startles a laugh out of Kurt.

“He died over a hundred years ago, Finn,” he says. “It's not as if I knew him.”

Finn finally puts down the snow-globe and reaches out for him, pulling him into a kiss. “But it's what you dream about, isn't it?” he asks, before he drags him towards the bed, and Kurt doesn't really have an answer for him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 5, wherein Kurt considers his talents and we learn something about his past_

“You are a whore,” is the first thing Santana says to him when he walks into the club that night.

“Excuse me?” Kurt says. She's got her hands on her hips. Behind her, Brittany lurks nervously. 

“Isn't that what you told me?” Santana asks. “That I'm a whore? That my clients fuck me and forget me as soon as they leave the house? And here you are, mooning like a lovesick teenager over Finn fucking Hudson.”

Kurt clenches his teeth. “I'm not mooning over him,” he says. “I'm not lovesick. I know what this is, and I know my place.”

“Do you?” Santana says sharply. “So am I just imagining the new clothes you are wearing? All those flowers in your room? Because to me, it seems like you are smiling an awful lot lately. You know, for someone who claims to know their place.”

“Why do you even care?” Kurt asks angrily. “What is it to you? Or are you just jealous that I'm the one he chose to fuck?”

Santana stares hard for a moment, and then her stony expression softens, just a bit. “Believe it or not,” she says, “but I'm looking out for you. You're deluding yourself if you think that this is going to change anything. Finn Hudson is not a Disney prince. He's a married man, even if his wife fucked around behind his back. He's a wanted criminal, even if Detective Figgins protects him as long as he gets payed by the first of the month. He's walked over bodies to get where he's now, and he won't hesitate to step over yours if it'll get him what he wants. Sooner or later, he's going to move on, and he's going to leave you in the dust.”

Kurt swallows. “I know that,” he says, and is surprised how much it hurts to say it. 

“Good,” Santana says, brows raised. “You know we are never going to get out of here. This is everything we're ever going to get. Now this one –“ she says and points up to the stage, where Rachel is just finishing _Poker Face_ , voice sultry and full, “she's different. She's got talent. Someone with a lot of money is going to walk in here one day, to relax after scoring an important business deal, and he's going to realize how good she is, and he's going to get her a recording contract in exchange for company and mediocre sex.”

 

The snow-globe was a gift from a client, back when Kurt was still the new guy at _Glee_. His name was Bryan, Kurt thinks, or Ryan maybe. He doesn't quite remember. He remembers that his wife's name was Wilma, though, and that the guy showed him a picture of her that he carried in his wallet. He had just come back from a business trip to Munich and had stopped at _Glee_ on his way home. 

“You are good,” he said after dumping the condom into the trash, and Kurt looked at him blankly, because he didn't quite know how to take that yet.

The guy got dressed, but then he leaned against the window sill and smiled wistfully: “Did you ever have to give up one of your biggest dreams?” he asked, looking out of window. “Do you know what that feels like?”

Kurt shrugged. “I only have nightmares,” he said, and the guy nodded.

“Of course you do.” 

He went through the duty-fee plastic bag he had tied to his carry-on and quickly threw something at Kurt's head. The boy barely managed to catch it out of the air.

It turned out to be a snow-globe, containing a miniature winter wonderland, with a bright white palace and a tiny horse carriage in the front. When Kurt shook it, the snow twirled upwards and back down again. It was strangely mesmerizing to watch. 

“What is this?” Kurt asked, and the man smirked.

“Something for you to dream about.”

 

“Do you think there’s something I’m good at?” Kurt asks when goes to see Artie in his office, to pick up his paycheck and bring him coffee. 

Artie gives him a quick look over the rim of his glasses. “I know for a fact that there’s something you are very good at,” he says, with something that would be a leer coming from anyone else. 

“Not like _that_ ,” Kurt says, but he finds himself smiling against his will. 

“Oh, I see,” Artie nods, serious now, and chews on the tip of his pen. “Well, you do Jones' hair and her nails, don't you? Tina tells me that you are good at that kind of thing. And don't you always help the girls pick out their clothes?” 

“That's nothing,” Kurt says. 

“It's not?” Artie asks. “Other people make a living doing exactly that kind of thing.” He sighs. “Kurt, I'm not keeping you here, you know that, right? You don't need to worry that I'd ...”

“God, no!” Kurt hurriedly says. “No, it's not that. I mean, working with clothes all day would be nice, I guess. But this is what I'm really good at, right?”

Artie opens his mouth, as if to answer, but a knock on the door stops him from saying more. 

It's Will Schuester, looking stern and serious, and Kurt involuntarily takes a step back. He's never really met Hudson's boss, but he knows just how much influence he has. Even if it's Cohen-Chang who protects the club from being taken over by Karofsky, it's Schuester's deal with Detective Figgins that saves the club from being taken apart by the police. 

“Mr. Schuester,” Artie says. “Please, take a seat. Would you care for a drink?”

“Mr. Abrams,” Schuester nods and sits. “A bourbon would be nice. On the rocks.”

Artie turns towards Kurt and raises a brow, and Kurt busies himself with the mini-bar that is set up in a corner of the office. It gives him the chance to listen in without drawing attention.

“Things are heating up,” Schuester says, not even acknowledging Kurt's presence. “Agent Sylvester actually paid me a visit two days ago. Scared my boy Hudson to death. Of course she didn't find any evidence, but it's still a bad sign. Means that Figgins won't be able to hold her back much longer. And then it's going to get ugly for all of us.”

Artie nods thoughtfully. “I'll see what Cohen-Chang can do for us,” he says. “Figgins is pretty scared of her, and with good reason. Have you heard from Puckerman?”

Schuester shrugs. “He has to know that he could basically ruin all of us with one word to the FBI. But so far he's kept quiet, and I don't think that's going to change. He knows that I've got my people inside the prison. Or maybe he's actually discovered his conscience. He worked for me for years, and Hudson was his partner, after all.”

Artie nods. “He is a lot of things, but he isn't suicidal. If only because he wants a chance to see his child once it's born. Speaking of which, any word from Fabray?”

Schuester shakes his head. “Nothing. If you ask me, she's probably fled the country. The cops don't really seem to be looking for her, so I'll consider her a non-issue.”

He takes the whiskey glass that Kurt offers and for the first time actually looks at him. “What did you say your name was?” he asks, a calculating gleam in his eyes that makes Kurt nervous. 

“Kurt Hummel, Sir,” he says, and Schuester's eyes spark in sudden interest.

“So you are the pretty thing that has turned my boy's head?” he asks. A hand comes to rest on Kurt's arm, squeezing lightly.

“Actually, Abrams,” he says, “do you think I could borrow him for a little while?”

“Sir,” Artie says, “I can assure you ...”

“Oh, I won't hurt him,” Schuester says easily. “I wouldn't do that. Don't worry, I just want to have a little chat with your boy.”

Artie shoots him an apologetic glance, but Kurt barely acknowledges it. He's got no idea what Schuester could possibly want from him, but he's determined to do whatever it takes to keep Finn Hudson safe.

 

“You don't have to look so worried,” Schuester says, lounging in the chair up in Kurt's room while Kurt is sitting awkwardly on the bed. “I'm a nice person, I'm not here to cause trouble. But my boy has been spending a lot of time at this establishment lately, and you have to admit that this is an interesting development, considering that he never showed any interest in boys before.”

Kurt blushes and looks down at his lap. “It's only temporary,” he mumbles.

“I'm sorry?” Schuester asks, and Kurt looks up. 

“I'm sure it's just temporary,” he repeats. “It's not a secret that the thing with Fabray hit him hard. I think he just needs something … different.”

“And that would be you?” Schuester asks thoughtfully, looking him up and down. “Well, I can certainly see the appeal. You _are_ pretty.” He sighs. “Look, I don't care who my boy sleeps with. And if he's suddenly developed a taste for ass, well, that's his problem. But sex is what got Puckerman where he's now, and I can't afford to lose another man. Especially not now that Agent Sylvester is breathing down my neck. So if I ever hear that you've caused any trouble for him ...”

“I'd never do that to him,” Kurt hisses furiously, and then slaps a hand over his mouth, mortified.

Schuester raises a brow. “Well, that's all I needed to know.” He smiles widely. “Maybe it's even a good thing. Keeps his mind off things. Hudson is a great guy, but he's not good at handling pressure. And you seem to do a good job at keeping him calm.”

Kurt dares to smile back tentatively. “Thanks, I guess?”

“I see that we understand each other.” Schuester stretches, but he makes no move to get up. Instead, he gives Kurt a lazy glance from half-closed eyes. 

“You know, I'm still kind of curious about what makes Hudson come back here every other night. Yes, you are pretty, but so are others.”

Kurt's skin suddenly starts to itch uncomfortably. “What do you mean?” he asks apprehensively, and Schuester shrugs casually.

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Just – since I'm already here, I thought I could find out what the hype is about.”

“Oh,” Kurt says, and tells himself that he should have expected it. There is no reason why his hands should grow damp, why his heart should start to beat faster – it's nothing he doesn't do every day, anyway. Nothing bad is going to happen, because in the end, Will Schuester doesn't care about Finn Hudson, or Kurt Hummel, as long as his business is running smoothly, as long as he's safe.

“You … I'm on the clock,” he finally says, and does not think of Finn at all. “You'd have to pay Mr. Abrams.”

“I will, don't worry,” Schuester says easily, and he leans back in the chair and opens his legs. “Now why don't you get over here and show me what you got?”

So Kurt crawls between Schuester's legs and sucks him off, and if there are tears forming in the corners of his eyes, that's just because he keeps choking on the cock in his mouth. 

“You've got talent,” Schuester says and pats his head, sounding actually impressed when he finally zips up his pants. “Have you ever thought about doing movies? Because the other day, I ran into Mr. Ryan, an old friend of mine, and he's made it big in porn ….”

“No,” Kurt interrupts, shaking his head. “Thank you, but no.”

“Well, it was just a thought,” Schuester says, raising his hands placatorily, and gives Kurt another one of his friendly, disarming smiles. “Thank you for your cooperation. I'm sure I'll see you around.”

Kurt stays on the floor for a long time after Schuester has left. When he finally forces himself to get up, he goes into the bathroom and brushes his teeth, but he doesn't quite get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth.

 

_Chapter 6, wherein dramatic things happen after all_

 

The next day is a Tuesday, and for once, Kurt doesn't have to wait for Finn Hudson.

“Did you sleep with him?” is the first thing Hudson asks when he bursts into Kurt's room unannounced, catching him half-dressed with a sock in his hand. It's only seven, and Kurt is preparing for his shift. 

“I'm sorry?” Kurt asks. Hudson is flushed and disheveled, looking absolutely furious, and suddenly Kurt can understand why people are scared of Finn Hudson, knows how they must feel when he shows up on their door step with threats and a gun stuffed into the waistband of his pants.

“Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about,” Hudson growls. “I know that Will was here yesterday. So let's try this again: Did you sleep with him?”

“Finn ...” Kurt says, hesitantly. He is terrified now, heart beat fluttery against his ribcage.

“So that's a yes then,” Finn nods, as if he didn't expect anything else, and closes in on him until he's crowded Kurt against the wall, hands clenched into fists. 

“Tell me, what did he do? Did you fuck on the bed? Did he fuck you against the wall?” 

Kurt shakes his head quickly. “Finn, no, that isn't ….” he starts, but Hudson stops him by slamming his fist into the wall, right next to his face.

“Don't lie to me,” he yells. “I can't believe this. First Quinn, now you?”

It's Quinn Fabray's name that undoes Kurt, that and the sudden realization that if Finn keeps looking at him like this, he doesn't really care if he lives. 

“Yes,” he says venomously, angry tears spilling down his cheeks, “yes, he was here, in this room, and I blew him. I deep-throated him, and I licked his balls, and no, I didn't sleep with him, but I would have, if he'd asked. Because guess what? That's my job.”

“Your job, hm?” Hudson asks. His voice is cold and ugly, and his face so terrible that Kurt wants to cower in fear. “Is that why you let me fuck you, because it's your job?”

Kurt swallows, and closes his eyes, but when he re-opens them, he holds Finn's gaze. “Ask yourself that question, Hudson,” he whispers. “You are the one that keeps leaving bills on my nightstand.”

Finn looks like he has been slapped. He steps back slowly, still breathing hard. “I should have known it,” he says. “You are just a whore. Just another faggy whore.”

And Kurt has heard that word before, and it never bothered him, but hearing Finn say it to his face breaks something in him. “Yes,” he says flatly. “That's who I am.”

For a moment, Finn looks like he wants to hit him, but then he stumbles away from Kurt, reaches for the closest object instead. The snow-globe hits the wall with a cracking noise and shatters, showering the bed in raindrops and glitter. Kurt watches it happen through the tears in his eyes and wishes Finn had just punched him instead. 

 

He curls up on the bed after Finn has left, in a sea of fake snow and plastic shards, and he doesn't move until Brittany comes looking for him. She doesn't say anything when she sees him, just crawls onto the bed and wraps him up in her arms. 

“We could make out,” she says hesitantly, after a while, and Kurt sobs out a laughter. “No, Brittany, thank you,” he says. “Just stay with me for a while, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, and caresses his back while he stares at the wall, shoulders trembling.

 

Artie calls him at home the next day, something he never does, and asks him how he feels, so Kurt suspects that someone told him about what happened the night before.

“Does this mean you're firing me?” Kurt asks, and Artie laughs quietly into the earphone. 

“No, you've still got your job. Although we do need to talk about what happened.”

“About me insulting Hudson?” he asks carefully, and Artie snorts. 

“No, about people carrying out their personal feuds on the backs of my whores,” Artie says. “This sort of thing is not going to happen again. I gave Hudson free reign for too long. He is important, but not indispensable. Next time he comes to see you, tell him to stop by my office.”

Kurt shivers. “I don't think there's going to be a next time,” he says tonelessly. 

Artie hums quietly. “He'll come back,” he says confidentially. “They always do.”

 

Kurt drags himself to work on Wednesday and wishes he had stayed home the moment he enters the club, because Santana walks up to him with a determined look on her face and proceeds to drag him behind a pillar. 

“Don't freak out,” she says, “but Hudson is here.”

Kurt tenses, heart already in his throat. “Where …?” he asks, but Santana shakes her head. She looks like she's almost feeling bad for him. 

“He's talking to Rachel.”

“What?” Kurt asks, dismayed, “what ...” Santana tries to block his path, but pushes her aside and steps around her, into the club.

Rachel is sitting on the edge of the stage, one leg dangling, the other one drawn up to her chest, and Finn Hudson is leaning next to her, whiskey glass in his hand, the free hand propped up on the stage very close to Rachel's knee. 

It's not the sort of flirting that Kurt is used to from the club; it's not what Kurt remembers from the first time he met Finn. They seem to be awkward and comfortable at the same time, intimate and serious, and even if Kurt knew this would happen, it still hurts like crazy to see them like this. He almost laughs when he realizes that Santana was right when she said that eventually, someone would recognize Rachel's talent. He just hadn't expected that man to be Finn. 

When Finn takes his eyes from Rachel for a second to look across the room, Kurt retreats behind the pillar where Brittany and Santana are waiting. Santana keeps silent, even though her face clearly says “I told you so”, and Kurt is honestly grateful for that. 

Brittany pats his arm and says: 

“Mike Chang is waiting for you upstairs.”

“Oh God,” Kurt breathes, leaning against Brittany's side for a moment, and then he straightens and climbs up the stairs to his room. 

He's greeted by the sight of Mike sitting on his bed, legs stretched out in front of him comfortably. 

“Hey, Kurt,” he smiles widely, “you up for a ride?”

Kurt tries to smile back, but he ends up just staring, frozen in spot; and Mike's grin slowly morphs into an expression of concern. 

“Kurt?” he asks, “are you alright?”

And Kurt just manages to shake his head before pressing a hand over his mouth and rushing to the bathroom. Crouching on the tattered tiles, he keeps throwing up until he's spitting out nothing but bile. 

 

Artie makes it very clear that he doesn't want him to work if he's coming down with something. 

“The only thing he's coming down with is a severe case of lovesickness,” Santana says dryly. 

Artie gives her a dark look and tells Kurt to go home anyway, but Kurt refuses. He tells himself that he needs something to distract himself, but deep down, he knows it's a lie. It's a Thursday, and he needs to be at the club: there's still this crazy spark of hope that Finn might show up, even after everything that happened. 

He can deal with the confused, sad looks Brittany keeps sending him, with the speculative, serene glances Rachel throws in his direction, if it means that he won't miss the chance to see Finn, even if it's just a split-second of eye contact before Finn will turn away.

But the clock turns ten, and it becomes clear that Finn is not coming. Kurt messed up, and Finn _is not coming._

Kurt knows that he shouldn't be here, that he's not in the right mindset to be working, but he can't imagine going home either, and that's how he ends up making a mistake. 

A lot of Kurt's customers hate themselves for coming to see him and then going back to their wives, but some of them feel like they have to take that hate out on Kurt. Azimio is one of them, and while he usually stops at insults and rough fucking, tonight there's something in his eyes that doesn't bode well.

And Kurt should know better: he has been working in this business long enough to know the signs, and under other circumstances, he would just call it off, would signal for one of the bouncers, let Artie know. But tonight, he doesn't notice the violent gleam in Azimio's eyes when he comes up to him, doesn't react to the taunting words, the brutal grip on his wrist, the shove that makes him fall across the bed; his mind still stuck on repeat, on Finn's angry face and the image of his snow-globe shattering into a million tiny pieces.

The first punch wakes him up. A slap to his face that makes his head fling to the side and his eyes sting, and he finally realizes that something is wrong.

“Stop, don't,” he says, half angry, half scared, but Azimio just laughs. 

“What,” he smirks, “you don't like it? Look at you, little fag, you're not even hard. I'm not good enough for you, is that it?”

The second hit hurts even worse, pain tearing through Kurt's jaw. Instinctively, he opens his mouth to call for help, but a hand closes over his windpipe before he can get any words out. 

“Shut up, little fag,” the man snarls. “Nobody is going to help you.”

He struggles against Azimio's grip, tries to throw off his weight, but the grip on his throat tightens, and already blackness is starting to cloud his sight. Right before he loses consciousness, he thinks he can hear Finn's voice, loud and concerned, but he tells himself that it's just his mind playing tricks on him, trying to come up with a pleasant memory to ease his death. 

That's when everything stops.

 

_Chapter seven, wherein Finn Hudson answers some questions and asks one himself_

When he wakes up, his throat hurts, and Mike Chang is sitting at his bedside, looking worried and pale.

He starts when Kurt croaks in a futile attempt to form words. 

“Thank God, you are awake,” he breathes, shoulders sagging, and he reaches out to take Kurt's hand. “How do you feel?”

Kurt frowns. “Fine,” he rasps, and Mike gives him a lopsided smile. 

“Sure,” he says dryly. “Try again.” But he mostly sounds relieved. 

Kurt coughs. His jaw feels swollen and tense. “What happened?”

Mike pulls a face. “You scared us. Don't do that again.”

“Azimio is already taken care of,” someone says, and Kurt realizes that another person is in the room. When he lifts his head a couple of inches, he can see Tina Cohen-Chang pace the room.

“That asshole will never fuck anyone again.”

Kurt swallows painfully. “You didn't have ...” he starts, but he stops when Cohen-Chang looks at him angrily.

“Yes, I did,” she says. “This shouldn't have h-happened. I promised Artie and Mike to k-keep the club safe.”

Cohen-Chang is a dark, merciless woman who dresses in black and hardly smiles, and a few crazy people swear up and down that she sleeps in a coffin. Right now, however, she looks mostly tired, and upset, and she stumbles over her words. It's strange to see her like this, but Kurt thinks he understands why: he's seen the way she looks at Artie, how Artie's face lights up when she's in the room. 

Love makes people vulnerable and weak. Kurt never really understood that, but now he knows better than anyone else.

There's a knock on the door, and Cohen-Chang says, more calmly: “There's someone who wants to see you.” 

Mike nods, and smiles, and squeezes Kurt's hand before he lets go. “I'm glad you are okay,” he says, and then: “I'm going to miss you.”

“Wait, what?” Kurt asks, and he tries to sit up, but his head spins and he helplessly falls back against the pillows. When he can breathe again, the Changs are gone, and Finn Hudson is looking down at him with an expression that Kurt can't quite read.

“Finn?” he whispers, and Hudson shakes his head. 

“I'm sorry, Kurt,” he says, voice almost breaking. “I'm sorry I was late.”

“What?” Kurt asks, confused. “What are you doing here, Finn?”

Finn chuckles, but it doesn't sound very happy. 

“It's Thursday, isn't it?”

Kurt draws in a sharp breath. “I didn't think you'd come.”

“Because we fought?” Finn asks guiltily. “I'm so sorry, Kurt, I never should have said what I did. But I was so angry at Schuester, and God help me, so jealous.”

“Jealous?” Kurt frowns. “I don't understand.”

Finn slumps into the chair next to Kurt's bed, wringing his hands. “Kurt,” he says. “Do you know how hard it is for me to walk out of this room and pretend that you don't have to spread your legs for the next guy that goes in?”

“I didn't think that bothered you,” Kurt says weakly. There's a spark of hope flaring in his chest that he desperately tries to ignore. “I didn't think you cared.”

“But it did,” Finn says, and he reaches out to take Kurt's hand into his. “I did.” His free hand comes up to brush gently over Kurt's forehead, his bruised jaw. “I'm sorry you got hurt because of me. I'm sorry I broke your snow-globe.”

Kurt sighs softly, pushing hesitantly into the touch. “So what does that mean?” he asks. “Do you … are you going to come back next week?”

“Kurt,” Finn says, and the way he doesn't meet his eyes makes Kurt's stomach clench. “I'm leaving the country. Tonight.”

“Oh,” Kurt says. He wonders if Azimio hurt him worse than he thought, because breathing suddenly becomes difficult again. 

“This is why I was late tonight,” Finn says hastily. “I wanted to be here around the usual time, but I had to … make a few arrangements.”

“Oh,” Kurt says numbly. “What … what happened?”

Finn groans and drops his head. “Quinn,” he says darkly. “She made a deal with Sylvester. All this time, she was cooperating with the FBI. They put her into witness protection. Promised to take care of the child.” He laughs bitterly. “I can't even blame her. I would have done the same. She told them everything she knows, which is not much, but more than enough to put Schuester and me into jail. Figgins warned us just in time, but I’m pretty sure that Agent Sylvester and her team are tearing my house apart as we speak.”

“So why are you still here?” Kurt asks, turning his head to the wall so that Finn can’t see the tears in his eyes. He’s grateful that Finn actually came to see him before he leaves, but to have Finn look at him with such tenderness, have his hand gently cup his face, just to be told that he’s never going to have this ever again – it almost makes him wish that Finn had jumped on a plane without looking back. At least then Kurt would have known that he was safe. 

“I want you to come with me,” Finn says, and Kurt’s head whips around. 

“What –“

“I know that I treated you badly, but I promise that I'll try and make it up to you, and – you are not happy here, are you?” His grip on Kurt's hand tightens. “Come with me, please.”

“Finn,” Kurt says slowly, and he wishes his head didn't hurt so much. “Don't do this. You are just saying this now, because you feel guilty about what happened with -”

“I was going to ask you to quit, you know?” Finn interrupts. “After our fight – before, I liked how things were going, I didn't want anything to change. But then Will told me that he had been to see you, and I just knew that I didn't want to share you anymore. And then I hurt you, and you yelled at me, and I realized that I didn't make you happy, not the way you made me feel.” He sighs, looking down at their hands. “So I talked to Rachel Berry, and -”

“Wait,” Kurt says. He blinks. “That's why you talked to Rachel?”

“Yes,” Finn shrugs embarrassedly. “I asked her not to tell you, I didn't want you to know. She said you were smart enough to go back to school if you tried. I was going to ask you tonight, give you time to think it over, but then Figgins called and – the plane leaves in four hours.” Finn swallows. “There's a fake passport for you. And a ticket, if you want it.”

Kurt struggles for air. His head is spinning. “But what about -” _my life_ , he wants to ask. 

He thinks of his room at the club, a box with a bed and a chair, thinks of his tiny apartment that he hates because there's nothing _there_. 

He thinks of Miss Pillsbury who called him 'Kurt' and told him how the name made her think of Austrian mountain meadows in the sun; thinks of Rachel's beautiful voice and Mr. Ryan's wistful question: _Did you ever have to give up one of your biggest dreams?_

“Yes,” he says quietly, and Finn's head snaps up.

“Yes?” he asks hopefully, and Kurt smiles at him and nods. 

“Yes, I'm coming with you.”

Finn breathes a laughter, full of relief, and leans in to kiss Kurt on the lips, sweetly and full of promise. When they break apart, Kurt raises a brow.

“Are you going to tell me where we are going?” he asks, and Finn grins happily.

“Munich,” he says. “This friend of Schuester's , Bryan, he's got some connections that could help me find a job. And Rachel told me that there is a famous fashion school – you know, if you wanted.” 

Kurt's eyes are wide. “Munich?” he asks. “But … but that's where Neuschwanstein is.”

Finn nods, and his smile grows more hesitant, almost shy.

“We can – we can buy you another snow-globe.”

Kurt laughs softly. “Who needs a snow-globe when they can have the real thing?” 

Who needs fairy tales, he thinks, when they can have their own prince? And he lifts his head for another kiss.

 

_Epilogue_

“Wow,” the girl says when the uncle closes the book. “And did they live happily ever after?”

“Of course they did,” the uncle nods seriously. 

“Artie,” an exasperated voice interrupts. “Are you reading her from your erotic romance novels again?” 

“Kurt,” the uncle smiles innocently. “Do you really think I'd do that?”

Kurt steps into the room and plucks the book from Artie's hands. 

“ _Glee Club. Not quite a Cinderella Story_ ” Kurt reads and sighs. “Artie. Do you really think this is appropriate reading material for a fifteen year old girl?”

“I'm too old for fairy tales, daddy,” the girl pouts, and Kurt sighs again, raising a delicate hand to push his bangs out of his face. 

“Shouldn't your parents be the ones to decide that, Luisa?” he says dryly, and gives the book another look. The cover shows a scantily-clad young man on a huge four-poster bed.

“You do know that Arthur Cohen is not the most convincing pseudonym,” he remarks, and Artie shrugs. 

“It sounds respectable,” he says. “Apparently there are people who think with a name like that, my books can't be bad, even if all I’m writing is gay dime novels.”

“What's going on here?” a new voice asks, and another man enters the room, wrapping his arms around Kurt from behind. He is so tall that he has to bend down to press a kiss against Kurt's neck.

“Artie is reading Luisa from one of his novels again,” Kurt complains, but there's not much heat in his voice.

“Well, she _is_ getting too old for fairy tales,” his husband shrugs, mouth still resting against the side of Kurt's throat. 

“See,” Artie says. “Finn agrees with me.”

“Finn would never officially take your side in an argument and risk having to sleep on the couch for a week,” Finn smirks and tightens his hold on Kurt's waist. “He is just here to tell you that Tina called. Go home to your wife, Artie. Our daughter may be old enough for romance novels, but she is still sick and needs her sleep.”

“Dad, come on,” Luisa whines, but Finn shakes his head. 

“Nuh-uh,” he says. “Good night, sweetheart, sleep well.” He pets her hair, and then Kurt bends down to press a kiss against her forehead. 

“You still have a fever,” he remarks, sounding concerned. “You should probably just stay home for the rest of the week. “

“Okay,” she nods, quick to agree. “But my friends from glee can come over tomorrow, right?”

Kurt groans. “Fine,” he says. “As long as they actually bring you your homework.”

“Of course, daddy,” Luisa smiles, and waves at her fathers and her uncle when they leave. 

Before she curls up under the covers, though, she reaches out for the snow-globe on her nightstand, shaking it until snow raises and falls. 

She watches the dancing snowflakes for a while, and then she stretches to turn off the light.


End file.
